Jeff leaned back in the chair, a playful smirk on his face. "Well, Uncle Boris, since you decided to mess around with me, it's only fair I return the favor," he said, eyes glinting with teasing intent. His fingers danced over the Chronivac's interface, setting up a series of changes.
Boris watched apprehensively, raising an eyebrow. "Jeff, you're not serious, are you?"
"Very," Jeff replied, unable to suppress a chuckle. "Trust me, you might want to strip for this one."
Boris hesitated, but a tingling sensation in his feet quickly escalated to a tight, almost constricting feeling. Alarmed, he hastily kicked off his shoes and socks.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down at his feet. They were changing rapidly, toes melding together into an unyielding, glossy surface that mimicked the shape of futuristic boots. These weren't just any boots; they were bulky, mechanical-looking, with a sheen that suggested metal but felt like cheap painted plastic. Each foot was encased in these rigid forms that had faux joints to allow some movement.
The surface was a dull gray, with painted seams and panels suggesting overlapping plates of armor, but they were all one piece, just an illusion of detail. It was as if his feet had been sculpted into toy-like replicas, designed to look powerful and functional yet clearly superficial and cheap upon close inspection.
As Boris flexed his feet nervously, he felt the limitations of movement, the artificial joints clacked and scraped, offering minimal articulation. His heels seemed permanently elevated, balanced on these faux boots, and a small flicker of panic danced in his eyes as the changes began to creep slowly up his ankles.
Boris glanced nervously at Jeff, a hint of fear in his eyes. "Jeff, I don't know about this... It's starting to feel really weird."
Jeff leaned closer, curiosity and mischief mingling in his expression. "Relax, Uncle Boris. Consider this payback. Besides, I warned you to strip. You might want to take those pants off before they get ruined."
With a shaky breath, Boris nodded. "Alright, alright," he muttered reluctantly, fumbling with his belt. He pulled his pants down just in time to avoid the fabric straining against his changing lower legs.
Staring in stunned silence, Boris watched as the transformation advanced upwards. His calves began to expand, muscles seemingly melting and reshaping under an unseen force. His skin turned that same dull gray, every contour and curve becoming swallowed by the encroaching plastic-like material.
"Jeff, this is...crazy," Boris exclaimed, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. "I feel like I'm turning into some kind of action figure!"
As the material solidified around his shins, it took on the faux pattern of layered armor, giving the illusion of strength and purpose, but the truth lay in its rigid, plastic nature. Each movement was accompanied by a soft creak from the artificial joints.
Boris swallowed hard, his voice betraying a mix of fear and an unsettling edge of excitement. "Jeff, this...this feels so strange. How far is this going to go?"
Jeff leaned back, watching intently as the transformation continued its relentless march. "All the way, Uncle Boris. All the way," he assured, a hint of fascination in his voice.
As Boris tried to process those words, the changes crept up to his knees. He felt the oddest sensation as his kneecaps distorted, morphing into firm, molded protectors. They clicked into place, stark and immovable, resembling protective gear but utterly insubstantial beneath the surface.
"Oh my god, everything's turning," Boris stammered, his voice a mix of fear and an unbidden thrill as his thighs began to follow suit. The transformation spread, washing over his upper legs like a wave, painting them with the same manufactured sheen of plastic.
His thighs assumed two-tone coloring; the insides a stark black, the outer surfaces a deep, forest green. Each step he tried to take was met with resistance, movements clunky and forced.
"Feels like I'm wearing a costume I can't take off," Boris mumbled, his hand brushing over the changes with a mix of wonder and anxiety. But it was what happened next that made him freeze, his skin electric with disbelief.
Boris's core tightened involuntarily as his private parts began to alter, reshaping into something unfamiliar. The muscle and flesh transmuted into a single, rectangular block of glossy plastic—a hollow echo of his previous self, left smooth and featureless.
"Jeff!" Boris gasped, panic flaring in his eyes, yet beneath it lay a flicker of something else, something he barely understood himself. "It's...it's all gone!"
Jeff watched, a sense of responsibility mingling with his curiosity. "Welcome to the new experience, Uncle," he said softly, unable to look away from the transformation he'd enacted.
Boris's breathing quickened as the transformation continued its steady climb up his body. He could feel the alien sensation moving up to his abdomen, his flesh yielding to the creeping plastic.
But then, something unexpected caught his attention. "Jeff," he called out, trying to keep his voice steady, "there's something...something happening with my legs."
Jeff's curiosity piqued, he leaned closer to observe. Boris focused on his right lower leg, feeling a strange sensation as the rigid plastic shell began to split. To his astonishment, a compartment opened smoothly, revealing a molded holster with a plastic toy gun nestled inside.
Boris hesitated for a moment, then reached down tentatively, his fingers brushing against the handle. It fit his grip perfectly, and with a tug, he withdrew it. The movement was fluid, almost natural, as though this was something he'd always been meant to do.
"What...what is this?" Boris asked, more bewildered than ever, the plastic weapon feeling light in his hands. He flexed, testing the range of motion, and then gently pushed the gun back into place. His leg clicked shut, a neat, seamless transformation back into a glossy facade.
"Check the other leg," Jeff encouraged, his tone almost eager.
Following his nephew's suggestion, Boris repeated the action with his left leg, discovering the same toy-like functionality. It was surreal, this newfound ability to open and close his legs at will, as if his body were adapting to its artificial nature.
Boris stood, a mix of dread and disbelief twisting in his expression as he felt the changes going further. His fingers tingled, the sensation spreading from his fingertips and turning them rigid, glossy, segmented one by one as they transformed into articulated plastic digits.
He flexed his new fingers tentatively, watching with wide eyes as they moved awkwardly, reminiscent of an action figure's stiff, factory-made joints that creaked slightly with each motion.
"Jeff, I'm really turning into a toy," Boris said, his voice edged with both fear and a strange sense of inevitability.
Jeff simply nodded, watching with a cool detachment. "I told you, Uncle Boris. It's payback time," he replied, almost casually, a smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth.
The transformation swept onward, creeping up Boris's forearms, turning muscle and skin into a smooth expanse of plastic, the sheen catching the light. His elbows clicked as the changes overtook them, mimicking the limited range of motion typical of action figures.
Boris's biceps and shoulders followed suit, reshaping into molded likenesses of muscular arms, sturdy yet hollow. The realization sank in deeper—he was being turned into an action figure, a plaything.
Jeff leaned back, surveying his work with satisfaction. "You know," he said, an edge of mischief in his tone, "once this is all done, I'm definitely gonna play with you, Uncle Boris."
Boris felt a peculiar heaviness settle over his chest as the transformation advanced, like a wave of pressure that swelled beneath his skin, urging it outward. He watched, a mix of bewilderment and resignation in his eyes, as his chest expanded, the flesh molding itself into a hulking design that mirrored futuristic armor.
The surface of his chest and abdomen shifted, the texture transforming to mimic the intricacies of combat gear. His chestplate was presented in a deep, metallic gray, with glossy green accents that highlighted the contours of a muscular, power-enhanced aesthetic. Beneath a glossy veneer, small details became apparent—impressions of reinforced segments and cunningly simulated vents, designed to suggest formidable power and durability.
Across this newly formed chest, black stenciled decals branded his armor with his name, "Boris," and a string of numbers that signaled his identity as a unique "figure." The markings were sharp, crisp against the artificial surface, lending an air of authority and intent.
Despite the imposing appearance, Boris could feel the hollowness within, a stark reminder of his transformation from flesh and blood to the hollow existence of a plastic action figure. His torso, once vibrant with life, now resonated with a subtle, echoing emptiness when he moved, underscoring his new reality.
Boris drew a deep breath—or attempted to—but his chest remained unmoving, a rigid plastic construct that lacked the capacity for such organic motion. The sensation was unsettling, this newfound rigidity juxtaposed against the memory of what had been.
Panic surged through Boris as he faced the realization—his ability to draw breath had vanished, lungs replaced by hollow space within his synthetic chest. "Jeff! I—" he began, the words catching as the changes crept inexorably toward his head.
The transformation seized his skull, reshaping its contours into a hardened helmet-like structure. His cranium expanded slightly, the exterior taking on a sculpted dome with sharply defined lines, imitating high-tech combat headgear. The faceplate was molded into an open visor, leaving his features visible yet altered. His face, while retaining the basic shape he'd known all his life, now bore the smooth, glossy finish of plastic, with uncanny detailing that preserved his likeness.
Inside the confines of this artificial head, a speaker system formed, crackling to life. "Jeff!" Boris's voice came through, now tinged with a mechanical distortion, an echo of its former tone but layered with a synthetic resonance.
Boris hesitated, wrestling with the strange urge blooming within him—to speak not in his own words, but in the clipped, cliched phrases of a manufactured hero. It was an automatic inclination, as if his transformed form came with its own script. "Mission initiated!" he heard himself say, the words slipping out almost unbidden, carrying an enthusiastic vehemence.
Trying to break through the pre-programmed vernacular, Boris focused, his thoughts straining against the constraints. "Jeff, this is...harder than it seems," he managed, voice wavering as he fought against the easy pattern. Each self-directed word felt laborious, compared to the effortless stream of action-figure dictations.
Jeff watched, a mix of awe and guilt flickering in his eyes as he absorbed the full magnitude of the changes wrought upon his uncle. "Uncle Boris, you're...certainly sounding the part now," he acknowledged, his smirk holding a shadow of concern for what he'd done in his playful revenge.